


The Stain

by darkangel_silvermoon



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Feels, Gen, Other, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 22:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel_silvermoon/pseuds/darkangel_silvermoon
Summary: His dressing gown no longer smells like him. A post!fall fic.





	The Stain

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Sherlock fic. Thank you for taking the time to read.

Sherlock's dressing gown no longer smells of him.

John buries his nose in the worn fabric— straining to catch the scent…but it isn't there.

His throat constricts until it feels as if he's taking air through a pin-hole.

There is a weight settling in him.

Sherlock Holmes is…

Not in the flat. And it doesn't feel right. His things collecting dust- violin propped against the mantle-waiting to picked up…

Experiments cleared out (the ones that could be potentially hazardous to John's health…but then, what could be more hazardous to John than John at this point?) But the rest…his equipment and such are set up- waiting to be used again.

And there's this rage that scratches at the piteous hollow of John's chest- this blinding pain that leaves him breathless.

He can't breathe- he can't breathe- he can't breathe- can't breathe- can't catch a breath.

Breathe.

John no longer cries tears.

It's just this open mouthed, silent scream that he can't control as his body stiffens in his chair.

So bad it takes an half hour to straighten himself out again; muscles quivering with the taught strength of chord…wanting to snap but just…

Not. Enough. Pressure.

And when he blinks… he sees the lines and grace as Sherlock takes his bow of the top of St. Bart's.

Each time…the image fresh—tearing holes through him.

And no one would believe that John no longer dreams. That was taken away from him.

Sometimes he wonders if the nightmares would be better. Better than the thick blackness, that overtakes him when he finally submits to sleep.

He feels guilty because Sherlock isn't in his dreams. Only when he's awake- in the streaming daylight—daylight that should not exist…

John shouldn't exist without Sherlock.

And at this point it's getting harder to say his name aloud. It gets logged in his throat- heart pounding double time. But he makes himself say it—mouth twisting around the constants and vowels. It feels as though he's making little slits in his skin every time…but it's worth the pain to know that Sherlock existed.

Sherlock was...

Sherlock is real.

The smokey grey-blue of his eyes slipping from his memory…

Sherlock's blue dressing gown no longer smells of him— and John doesn't know what this means anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think. ThAnk you again for taking the time to read this fic.


End file.
